Machines Don't Bleed
by ChaosandMayhem
Summary: Gray Mann has made his endgame move. As rivals edge towards nuclear war and the doomsday clock ticks towards midnight, a motley band of mercenaries are the only ones brave enough (or stupid enough) to try and stop the end of civilization as they know it. The continuation of Eight Mercenaries and A Toddler and I'll Be Home For the Holidays
1. The House of the Rising Sun

And we're back! I told you I'd be back in action for December!

**Note**: This story is a continuation of _Eight Mercenaries and A Toddler_ as well as_ I'll Be Home for the Holidays_

As always, a big thanks to Belphegor for her beta talents. :3

Still don't own nothin'

* * *

"_Confront them with annihilation, and they will then survive; plunge them into a deadly situation, and they will then live. When people fall into danger, they are then able to strive for victory_." – Master Sun, _The Art of War_

_**Prologue: The House of the Rising Sun**_

_There is a house in New Orleans/They call the rising sun/And it's been the ruin of many a poor boy/And God, I know, I'm one…_

The voices whispered and snarled in his ear, razor-like growls ringing in his ears. Blood rushed into his head, making the voices screech and the drums in his mind pound. He stumbled, striking tools from his desk as he did so.

_My mother was a tailor/She sewed my new blue jeans/My father was a gamblin' man/Down in New Orleans…_

He'd tried everything to get the hoarse voices out of his head, the voices that crooned and murmured and whispered awful, awful things into the night. They were the voices of the hungry, the voices of the thirsty who could not be satisfied no matter the bounty before them. These voices wanted to _hunt_.

_Now the only thing a gambler needs/Is a suitcase and a trunk/And the only time he's satisfied/Is when he's on a drunk… _

Music had drowned out the voices for a time, but they'd learn to fight back against the din, reaching to him in the silence between each song, growing louder and louder as they learned the pauses in the tempo. Record after record had failed him, and record after record he'd smashed in frustration and fury. There was only one left, and so far it had only kept to tethered to sanity by a thread.

The music swelled and crashed down like a wave, washing away the voices for an instant. He stood stock-still, blinking around his crowded, dirty workshop and trying to figure out why he'd come here. From the workbench the steel of a revolver glinted.

_Oh mother, tell your children/Not to do the things I've done/Spend your lives in sin and misery/In the house of the rising sun…_

He stumbled towards the gun, snatching it up. The voices gathered at the edge of his mind, biting and snarling, panting in an anticipation of his weakness.

Well, they couldn't feast on a silenced mind, now could they?

_Well I got one foot on the platform/The other foot on the train/I'm going back to New Orleans/To wear that ball and chain…_

It was his own fault, really—too much ambition, too much pride, to see what it was he was building until it was too late.

_There is a house in New Orleans/They call the rising sun/And it's been the ruin of many a poor boy/And God, I know, I'm one…_

But they couldn't use the damn machine without an Engineer.

The song came to a crashing, mournful crescendo, pulsing with raw emotion, rift with regret and resignation.

Delmond waited until the final chord had died. And then he fired.

**…**

The record had long since played its final song, but it continued to scratch away nonetheless, a dull, persistent humming in the background that scratched at Gray Mann's eardrums. He eased around half-built machinery and stacks of tools, eyes flicking from one corner of the room to the next. Behind him Giancarlo followed, silent save for the whirring of the mechanical half of his body. The cloying smell of death filled the air around him.

When he found what he was looking for, Gray stopped short.

Delmond Conagher, formally of Builder's League United, had died in the most ungracious way possible—what was left was him had collapsed where he stood, one hand still clutching a bloodied revolver, his brains splattered across the walls and floor around him.

Taken in the grisly scene, Gray wrinkled his nose. When he spoke, his tone was more annoyed than anything else: "Oh dear."

Giancarlo glanced from the body to his employer. His left eye, a bright red bulb, narrowed. "What is it?"

Gray arched an eyebrow, nonplussed by the sudden turn of events. "It looks like we're going to have to find ourselves a new Engineer."

* * *

We're a long away from accidental children and Australian Christmas, folks.

Note: _Machines Don't Bleed_ is going to be slow on the updates for a while, as I do have a _Dangan Ronpa_ fanfic in the works on Tumblr that's edging towards the climax, and thus demands more attention. Also, finals are around the corner. But I'll strive for weekend updates at the best, bi-weekly (as in every two weeks) at the worst.

Ciao for now!

~Chaos


	2. Before the Storm

_**Chapter One: Before the Storm**_

A motley, uncouth, and dangerous band of killers and thieves they might have been, but that didn't mean they couldn't have a bit of class.

That was the argument Medic had made to his fellow Europeans one evening. For, after two years of putting up with Scout's fixated with baseball, he had had enough. It was time to give the young man a lesson in worldly culture, to introduce him to more refined, more tasteful forms of entertainment…

Like rugby, for example.

Really, they should have done this years ago, for a violent, physical, free-for-all sport that was rugby went right up Scout's alley and made plans to stay. Instantly the Bostonian was over his 'weenie European' view, eagerly taking part in discussions about the sport and flipping on the radio to listen to the latest matches.

Of course, there was a downside to this that none of the other REDs had considered.

They had introduced _Scout_ to _rugby_.

"COME ON, REF, GIVE 'IM THE RED CAHD! THE RED CAHD! THAT'S A FUCKING OFFENSE RIGHT THERE, YOU GONNA LET THAT PIECE-A SHIT GET AWAY WITH THAT?!"

From the rec room Medic winced, Scout's bellicose tone ringing through one ear and out the other. On the couch beside him sat Demoman, shaking his head sadly, his good humor about the whole thing spent long, long ago. "I ain't gonna say I told ya so, doc…"

"You never told me so," Medic snapped. The German had his gaze locked on the entrance, the muscle under his eye twitching. The doctor's patience—which had never been much to begin with—was all but spent.

"Well, I _thought _so." This Demoman mumbled under his breath, for he knew better than to test Medic. His singular gaze locked on the television screen, where an empty podium, decorated with microphones and the flag of the United States, waited.

"OH COME ON, THAT'S A FRIGGIN' FOUL—"

Heavy and Soldier entered the rec room just as Medic came barreling out, shoving the two bulky men aside effortlessly. Russian and American looked to Medic, then to each other, and then shook their heads simultaneously. They retreated to the relative safety of the worn couch just as Scout's voice rang out again:

"OI! WHADDYA DOIN', DOC?! I WAS LISTENIN' TO THAT—"

"I CANNOT HEAR MYSELF THINK WITH ZHAT INFERNAL RACKET!"

"IN-FER-NAL RAH-KET?! YOU'RE THE ONE WHO—OW! OW! OW! OW!—OWWW!"

Medic reentered the rec room, this time hauling along a squirming Scout behind him. He had the young man by the ear, and—with little effort on the part of Medic—threw him onto the couch. Scout landed with a soft "ooooph", head knocking against Demoman's knee. "HEY!" He sat up instantly. "What was that for?!"

Medic collapsed down beside him, looking strangely contented by Scout's outrage. "Shut up und sit down."

"I _am_ sitting down, moron."

Demoman shushed the pair of them, waving his hand a bit as President Richard Nixon approached the podium on-screen. A growl escaped Soldier, who stood behind the couch. The patriot propped his helmet up higher onto his forehead to better glare at the long-nosed president. "Tricky Dick."

The comment earned him several startled glances from the others. Demoman arched an eyebrow. "Dinnae vote for 'im, Sol?"

"Vote for that guy?! Negative, private!"

"…but…" Scout's brow furrowed, "don't you vote Republican?"

Soldier stood a little straighter. "That's right! And I voted for the most Republican man I know!"

Scout's eyebrows rose so high they disappeared under the line of his baseball cap. "Let me guess," his voice went deadpan, "you voted for yourself."

A triumphant grin lit up Soldier's features. He nodded, rolling his shoulders back and puffing out his chest in a display of American pride. "Damn straight, son!"

Slowly Medic sank forward, pressing his face into his hands in an overt gesture of exasperation with his team. There he remained until Heavy tapped him on the shoulder to silently indicate the television.

Nixon had finished the customary preliminary greetings. Now he looked squarely into the camera with a grim expression. He gripped the sides of the podium, stiff and unusually gauche. Instinctively attention was drawn to him, the somber air around him oddly magnetic. "Good evening," he began. "I come to you today in the wake of grave news regarding our treaty with the Soviet Union regarding the use of nuclear weapons." He paused, seeming to consider the gravity of his next words. "Initial talks with the USSR have been unsuccessful—"

Heavy snorted, folding his arms over his chest. "Is all lies of capitalist pigs. No offense." The last was added quickly.

Soldier shrugged, still staring at the television. "None taken."

"Whoa, whoa, whoa, hold up." Scout held up his hands, shooting wild looks around the room as Nixon continued to drone on. "What's Dicky goin' on about now?"

"Nuclear warheads," Medic replied. He adjusted his glasses before continuing on: "Ze arms race. Mutually assured destruction."

Scout paled. "'Mutually' meanin'…"

Heavy leaned over to the Bostonian with a wicked grin. Scout scooted backwards, but had nowhere to go as Heavy snarled, "If USSR burns, you burn with us."

"I was afraid you was gonna say that." Scout gulped. He edged backwards, nearly winding up in Demoman's lap. When the Scotsman glared at him, Scout eased back towards Medic, suddenly distressed. "They wouldn't…really do it…y'know, KA-BOOM." He mimed an explosion with his hands.

"Your president seems to think so." Medic shrugged. "It all depends on a balance of power. If that balance is upset—"

KA-BOOM.

A small explosion rattled the RED base. Those gathered in the rec room shared quick, startled looks before collectively looking to Demoman. The Scot grunted, sitting up in order to properly glare at them. "What?! I didnae do it, I'm sittin' right here—"

His indignant rant was cut short by a loud stream of southern-fried curses, so vehement and so vile that even Scout turned red. Medic's eyes narrowed towards the floorboards as more and more of the Engineer's ranting carried up from his workshop.

Scout followed his gaze, eyebrows arched. "What's he doin' now?"

"Something progressive," Medic replied curtly. After an instant of thought he added: "I hope."

** …**

"Screwdriver."

"Hudda hudda."

"Wrench."

"Wrphht."

"Fire extinguisher."

"HUDDA!"

"You don't count, Py."

With faint squelching noises the Engineer's goggles came off. He set them aside, grabbing up a grubby cloth to wipe most of the soot and grime off of his face. His electric blue eyes locked on the mumbling pyrotechnical maestro beside him. "I don't think I've ever seen ya _put out_ a fire."

Pyro huffed in begrudging agreement before hauling the hefty fire extinguisher up onto the workbench. "Mmmrph mph?"

"I told y'all, we're doing this as a favor to the doc." As he replied Engineer leaned over, tapping an oil-smeared finger against a set of fresh blueprints. "He thinks I've got the know-how to upgrade his Medigun, and, well, I'd like to be able to prove that that faith in me is founded. S'not easy, though." He tilted his head to the side, adjusting the blueprints. Perhaps he'd been tackling this problem the wrong way—maybe, to achieve the sort of upgrade Medic wanted, he would have to dismantle the whole damn thing. A groan escaped him and Pyro patted his shoulder sympathetically.

Engineer rolled his shoulders back and grinned. "Thanks, Py. There are most frustrating hobbies than this, though."

"Hudda?"

"Well, have you ever tried to play chess with Down Under?"

** ...**

"It's your move, Lawrence."

One gloved finger tapped impatiently against the arm of a well-tailored suit. Gray-blue eyes fixated on the hunched form across him. A small "hrrumph" of irritation sounded through the small landing. "Lawrence, I said it's your move."

Slowly the hunched form of the leathery, lanky Sniper eased up, spinning a little in his seat to stare at the chessboard between the pair of them. Sniper's eyes flicked from the chessboard to the aggravated Frenchman, and then back to the chessboard. His hand twitched towards the board.

Too late the Frenchman saw the Aussie's mischievous grin, and too late he shouted "DON'T YOU DARE!"

But Sniper had already bellowed "KAMIKAZE!" and flipped the chessboard over, scattering pawns and knights and rooks all over the place.

The Spy glared through the sudden chaos, thoroughly unamused. He gritted his teeth, just barely keeping his temper in check. He bent over to retrieve his queen. "Lawrence," he snarled, "while I appreciate your _unconventional _tactics, I would also like to be able to play a proper game. And Kamikaze chess is not a proper game."

The Sniper, by this time accustomed to Spy's grim demeanor, chuckled. "Yes it is."

"Oui, but it does not literally involve a Kamikaze maneuver! Kamikaze chess is a form of antichess in which the goal is to lose all of your pieces—"

"Oh, lighten up, Phil." Sniper turned around again, ignoring Spy's rant in favor of whatever it was outside that interested him so. He peered through the scope of his rifle, but his fingers were nowhere near the trigger. He was idle, a silent watcher rather than a dangerous predator.

Once Spy realized his lecture on the proper rules of antichess was falling on deaf ears, his nostrils flared and he sat forward. "And just what is it out there," he growled, "that is so fascinating?"

"S'Blake—er, the BLU Engie."

Spy leaned back, suddenly disinterested. That Sniper had a soft spot for Blake Porter— who had been known for almost two years as the BLU Engineer—was not new information to him. Certain events kept men from hating each other too much, and Blake's spectacular role in their 1968 misadventure (as he and Lawrence had taken to calling it in private) had put him squarely in Sniper's good graces. And the energetic young man looked to be in there for the long run. And Blake…well, the stars were in still in his eyes whenever he and Lawrence to square off on the battlefields. Which, fortunately for all involved, wasn't very often at all.

Spy snapped open his cigarette case. "What's 'e doing? Calling 'is mummy?"

"Looks loike he's about to be sick," Sniper admitted.

In the distance Blake slumped up against the BLU base, rubbing his arms in a self-comforting, protective fashion. The young man cast furtive looks around him, as if sensing that he was being watched.

"If 'e's sick 'e can go to 'is Medic," Spy replied, a sharp edge coming into his voice. "Stop wasting your time on that boy, Lawrence!"

Sniper sat up once more with a shrug. "Can't help it, Phil, he's a good kid! Even if he is a ruddy BLU…" He took to rubbing at his stubble, inwardly admitting to himself that perhaps his fixation on Blake's well-being was a bit silly. "Aargh, I guess yer roight."

Spy blew a mouthful of cigarette smoke into the air. "I'm always right." He stood, dusted himself off, and moved to the ladder. "You're just never listening to me when I'm right. Which is always…are you coming or not?!" The last was added as he glanced over his shoulder, for Sniper remained where he was.

The Aussie had his gaze tilted up to the blood-red sky, squinting even with his aviators. There was stillness in the air, tautness, such as the arrow about to fly or the big cat about to strike. The air was heavy, thick with the lingering scent of smoke and blood from the day's battle. Something in the distance seemed to crackle.

"Storm's comin'," he muttered.

Spy cocked an eyebrow, looking through the cracked flats of wood out onto Teufort. The vermillion sky was free of clouds, the setting sun brilliantly contrasting against the dark horizon. Nothing about the warm summer night seemed to suggest a storm.

He knew better than to disregard an old bushman's instincts, however.

"Well—" Spy started once more for the ladder, trying to keep his tone light, "—we're just going to 'ave to batten down the 'atches, aren't we?"

* * *

I would like to point out that we are now officially in non-canon territory. MDB might be taking cues from the recent updates and comics, but we're striking out on our own here. The same can be said for the historical aspect too-we're going into Alternative History. Although, given Australia's status in TF2, we might have been there already.

Also, a big thanks to whoever is keeping the TvTropes page for EMAT and HFH updated! Thank you so much! :)

~Chaos


End file.
